


Afterburn

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Bisexual Murder Girlfriends, Biting, Dirty Talk, F/F, Impromptu But Thoroughly Consensual Bloodplay, Mentions of Arson, PWP, Questionable Sartorial Choices for Fire-Starting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 09:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10613766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: Sometimes, the fire burns hottest far from the flames.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sonia R.](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sonia+R.).



> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

Esmé tells Georgina that Jerome is out, not bothering to specify if she means out of the penthouse, out of her life, or simply _out_ in general. For the next few moments, she doesn’t specify anything else to her, either, because she’s far too busy dragging her into the westernmost sitting room and pulling her down onto the pristine white shag-pile rug in front of the bay of floor-to-ceiling windows with their sweeping view out over the City. 

“Need you,” she finally manages, her fingers trembling with pure anticipation as she fumbles with the buttons of Georgina’s crisp cream-colored blouse. “ _Now_. God, _fuck,_ you’re _perfect_ …” The rest of her sentence is muffled as she buries her face in the optometrist’s neck.

There’s normally a bit more of a lead-in to this, but Georgina isn’t complaining. In fact, she’s been wondering what Esmé might be like when she can’t control herself anymore, and it appears that, between the visceral thrill of setting a few ill-fated mansions ablaze together and the subsequent five hours of teasing and touches and innuendo on the drive back to the City, she’s about to find out.

The first thing she notices is that Esmé dispenses with even the vaguest pretense of propriety, grinding herself against whatever body part she can feasibly access in a shameless bid for friction. At the moment, it’s Georgina’s thigh, and she can feel the hot, wet line of her even through the fabric of her suit skirt, which will almost _certainly_ end up ruined.

She almost _certainly_ does not care.

The second thing she notices is that Esmé uses her teeth far more liberally when she’s this desperate. She’s always been a biter, and Georgina’s neckwear collection has expanded exponentially since the first time she woke up in bed beside her with no fewer than four bruises on her neck, complained about it, and somehow prompted Esmé to start a thoroughly unnecessary tradition of gifting her an absurdly expensive silk scarf for each fresh set she inflicted.

This time, however, she moves beyond nipping. Her teeth are viciously sharp, and despite a dim realization that their proximity to the arteries in her throat should perhaps raise some concerns, Georgina can’t help the thrill that runs through her when they sink deep into the delicate skin there.

“Come  _on._ ” She’s too far gone to worry about the unmistakable note of need in her voice, or to stop herself from wrapping a leg around the younger woman’s waist to pull her closer. “You can do better than that."

Esmé registers three sensations almost simultaneously. The first is kinesthetic: a peculiar giving-way feeling, something that reminds her of the first bite of a ripe July plum. The second is gustatory: the rich savor of copper sliding salty-slick over her lips and blossoming across her tongue. The third is aural, loud enough to startle her, and she pulls back to determine whether the shriek she has elicited from the woman underneath her connotes pleasure or rage.

 _That’s odd_ , the hypnotist thinks disjointedly, blinking up at her. _She wasn’t wearing lipstick when we came in. It can’t have smudg…_

Comprehension dawns and suddenly she’s kissing her, hard and hot and hungry, sliding her tongue into Esmé’s blood-stained mouth. Without breaking the kiss, she rolls the pair of them over, and the financier moans, loving the delicious weight of the firm, compact body on top of her.

 _Touch me, fuck, **please** touch me,_ Esmé wants to plead, but speech would require that Georgina stop kissing her, so instead she reaches over and snatches the other woman’s hand, dragging it down to the hem of her leather miniskirt. As it happens, she breaks the kiss anyway, crying out when her lover takes the hint and– _ohgodyes **finally** –_ slips her hand between her legs to tease her open with a flawlessly-manicured index finger.

“Laundry day?” Georgina asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or is underwear just not _in_ at the moment?”

“Mm, neither,” says Esmé as two fingers slide effortlessly inside her, slick with her own copious arousal. “Just no point wearing it around _you_.”

A bark of laughter in reply as the optometrist raises her free hand to her neck. “Fair enough. Am I still bleeding?”

Esmé has to work to focus her eyes. “Maybe a little.”

“Take care of it, will you?”

Instantly, she raises her head off the floor, tangling her hand into Georgina’s hair, and presses a series of soft, open-mouthed kisses over the livid crimson rivulet that stands out starkly against otherwise pale skin. With a few fluttering strokes of her tongue for good measure, she lowers her head gracefully back onto the rug, looks Georgina squarely in the eye, and slowly, deliberately licks her lips. “Is there anything _else_ you'd like me to take care of, darling?”

“ _Later_.” The growl in her tone would sound like a threat in any other context. “You’re coming first. It’s not negotiable,” she purrs in Esmé’s ear, ghosting a thumb over her clit and smirking when the body beneath her quivers at the contact, “so how do you want it?” 

Cockiness gives way to confusion as Esmé wriggles out from underneath her and teeters to her feet in her vertiginous gold stilettos. Crossing to the bank of windows overlooking the bustling city many, many stories below, she braces her palms flat against the glass, spreading her legs and arching her back invitingly as she looks over her shoulder, black eyes sparkling.

The stare she receives in return is undisguised hunger. Georgina’s blouse is still half-unbuttoned and her bob looks disheveled where Esmé’s hand tousled it, but force of habit impels her to brush some of the white rug-lint off her businesslike black pencil skirt as she makes her way toward the windows.

“You know,” says Esmé, “if you were _anyone_ else, I’d be offended by that.”

Crossing the remaining distance between them and slipping her left hand smoothly under Esmé’s shirt _(possibly the only woman alive who can make a lime green crop top look like a good idea,_ she reflects), she makes a quietly appreciative sound upon confirming her suspicion that the other woman did, in fact, forego a bra this morning. “Oh?” she asks, cool lips brushing against the nape of her neck. “And why do I get a pass, hmm?”

“Because, unless I’m _very_ much mistaken, you’re about to make it up to me,” Esmé replies nonchalantly, reaching back to trace her fingertips over the tender wounds on Georgina’s neck. “I think it’s your turn to make _me_ scream, don’t you?”

Her palm slams back against the window to steady herself as the hand that had been toying lazily with her nipple drops down, strong fingers closing over her hip and yanking her back so the curve of her ass presses firmly against the optometrist’s groin. “You say that,” Georgina practically snarls in her ear, “as if I haven’t fucked you senseless on every bed, couch, table, and counter in this apartment, to say _nothing_ ,” and here she thrusts two fingers back into Esmé’s dripping center, “of the number of times I’ve had you _screeching_ my name in every back alley and public washroom between here and the Hinterlands.” She pauses to nip at the shell of the younger woman’s ear. “You’re always louder when you think someone might overhear us, you know.”

“Oh, as if you don’t _adore_ the idea of getting caught with me.” Esmé grinds her hips back against Georgina. “Admit it, you’re – god, _harder_ , yes, yesyes _yes_ , like _that, fuck –_ you’re _just_ as sick as I am, darling, that’s why you lo- _ohhh,_ there _,_ right _fucking_ there, don’t you _dare_ stop, I’ll fucking _kill_ you if you st–”

She cuts herself off with a wail that rattles the chandelier two rooms over. It occurs to her that she hadn’t wanted it to happen this fast, but she’s been desperately aroused since Georgina lit the first match back in Paltryville – _god, the way she looks with a house fire reflecting off her glasses_ – and she can still taste the lingering, savage tang of blood in her mouth, and Esmé can’t hold out any longer. She comes, _hard_ , and her legs give out, and it’s only Georgina’s arm snaking around her waist that keeps her from crumpling like an obscene rag doll.  

Lowering her thoroughly debauched lover down onto the rug, Georgina leans back against the window, settling Esmé’s head on her lap and lazily stroking her coal-black curls as the afternoon sun streams in around them. “I don’t have to admit anything,” she murmurs, though she’s almost certain Esmé can’t hear her. “You already know.”      

**Author's Note:**

> Particular thanks to Rachel, without whose encouragement this thoroughly shameless PWP would likely never have seen the light of day.


End file.
